


Transfer Window

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Team Dynamics, Transfer Window
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 03:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2295224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steven hates the transfer window, especially the one that opens in August, because he hates being left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transfer Window

_There are years that ask questions, and years that answer_ \- Zora Neale Hurston

***

Alex knew not to trouble him at this time of year.

She had been moved to comment on the oddness of Steven's reaction to August when they’d first started going out: "Some people get SAD in winter, but you're the only one I know who gets it in summer. You're a maudy one aren't you, love?" Alex would tease, her arms tight around his middle. He’d feel the shake her head, her lips against his shoulder blade, before she placed her hands on the side of his face, and kissed him on the mouth. Alex, a true Northern lass, filled with sturdy comfort, her tones as cheerful as the August days England doled out if she thought you were good. Over time, Alex did one better, understanding him enough to give him the space to be moody for the month. When the girls came along, gilt edged and naughty giggles, they helped -because they always did- and cuddles made his outlook better for a few minutes. But even then, in the sage ways of children- they knew about this time of year and adjusted to it.

The signs were there with the date drawing closer on the calendar, _August 1_. Every agent, player and journalist lay in tense wait for the summer window, stalking it like a poacher alongside the mouth of the goal posts. It came eight months after the January one, that one smack in the middle of the League races, but the summer one had more importance: it signified the kickoff to the new League season, to cream off players who impressed via international competitions, or up and coming for their clubs at the end of their respective league seasons. The atmosphere unsettled and crackling with expectations; scouts, managers, reporters and players on the hunt for their respective paydays. Fanzines and online websites punting on who would go where, supporters praying their players would stay put, and contracts redrawn and finalised. For the casual observer, there was always a blockbuster of a transfer, something as shocking as a skyfall of frogs, and just as mad.

For the next four weeks rumour and fact exploded, the red tops screaming gossip on their back pages. A player withering away on a bench at Bayern Munich waiting for minutes, eyeing a mid table team in the English League to get starting XI. Will the club let him go? Or would they block his transfer? Tune in for the next instalment. That player in Real Madrid wanting more money because his club didn’t respect his services , ‘sources’ told whomever would listen (probably if he’d looked more Harry Potter and less Dobby his fate might have been different- other waspish voices hissed) . All the static and rumours that sparked over various stadia during the previous months of the season, had the tabloids gathering them like tea leaves, trying to divine future moves in the bottom of a cup- or inside the back pages. 

Good managers and clubs tallied up their needs like a thrifty housewife doing her weekly shop. They looked at their points on the board last year, scrutinised their targets, zeroing on who they needed to sell on, crosshairs on who they wanted to buy. They eyed their budget, going into the transfer window with options to buy or take out on loan, a couple left backs, a clutch of midfielders and oh, a striker if you could, please, since ours decided he craved Italian. _Al dente_. 

As Captain, Steven prided himself on keeping on top of the potential charges Brendan Rogers, Liverpool's manager, had his eye on. It made sense, since he'd be leading the troops and wanted to get a sense of their stats, their styles, and where he’d fit in around them and vice versa. Brendan already knew the type of players he needed for the formations he favoured. Brendan also knew what he _wanted_. Buy modest and upcoming over marquee names. He had his criteria, and was never afraid to share it. 

"Attractive footballers. Aware, crafty. Lads who know the ball and aren't afraid of pace and getting physical, but are about positioning and game plans first. Playing it simple, being in the right position. Reading the game, knowing the right moment to make things happen. Tactics." Brendan hated a long ball, Steven knew. Ruined the English game, he would say. The lack of passing, the heavy touch and absence of spacial awareness. It suffocated, made the game less spectacle, and more of an ugly grind. “Tackles over technique,” he’d say, in the liquid tones of half blarney, half preacher. “It has to go. English players _can_ be technical, the spectators can like that aspect of the game, intelligent, simple. Let’s change it, make people see what attractive football can _be_.”

Invariably the choices turned to Spain and Spanish footballers. The players’ names not as foreign to Steven as say back in 2005, when all those vowels and sharp edges of accent marks and curves that came with the new names baffled and speared his tongue tender in trying to pronounce them. Núñez, Josemi, Alonso, García. 

On his dining table his laptop was open, with various bookmarked webpages. beside it, notebooks, files. Steven felt less footballer, and more football manager at times. He made a face as he clicked on another YouTube video with dodgy trance music and disclaimers of copyright infringement. Right, this lad hailed from SD Eibar, a Basque outfit with a name that sounded Spanish but not really, because of history and linguistics Xabi had told him once. Reaching for the bottle of water, he scrubbed at his face. 

Bloody August, who would have it as a month, eh? Just jump straight to September 1, he would. July then September. 

One transfer window for a league year, that would be it. If you were disgruntled with your club, wait it out for a year, it would pass. If you were a good player but didn’t want a long term project at a growing club with new investments as much as glories, take the year, guard your form with the fervour of a new convert, get your representatives sounding on your behalf and then jump. New year, new club, with a fast track to League cups if you please, with glories thrown at you like knickers at a rock star. That would be handy. But the wish was a futile one, he knew, as he wiped the sleep from his eyes, and flicked through a file. 

It was a bit rich, having these thoughts, Steven knew, because ten years ago, he had been one of the players disgruntled with club. He too wanting glory, waiting for the transfer window to be opened so that he could hare off like Michael Owen did. Chelsea or Real Madrid, whomever would have him. Captain's armband be damned, because it was more an ill applied tourniquet, cutting off career circulation and glories rather than a band of honour. Rafael Benitez looked at him in that way he did; calculated bordering on chilly, the distance of a new manager in a new place, trying to make him stay since Owen already decided to leave. Benitez raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and after a short go around, offered him investment with the promise of glory. 

"A team built to suit you, instead of what Mourinho wants to do," he'd said. "Something balanced. We have to think about the future, and how we move forward.” Then with a curl of his lip, and eyebrows raised, he said, in that strict way of his, “Who knows, you might stop running around on the field as much."

Ah, Benitez, who could build you up and cut you to the bone at the same time. A charmer, really, with shades of wanker, but he'd kept his word. 

_Melwood training centre 2004_

The English summer lived up to its reputation that year. 

The air misty enough to make his hair and face dewy with damp, the morning chilled, the sky curtained with clouds, offering no hint if the day would get warm and clear. Steven rolled his shoulders as he stood with Carra waiting on the new lads. A bit earlier than they’d normally be out, but he was Captain, and it suited everyone for him to get to know his new teammates so he could lead introductions in them meeting the rest of the team. Carra, because he understood, volunteered to come out and keep him company, and give his own slant on things The kit men had been out, everything already set up for training. Diamond spikes to the far right, speed ladders, and the pale blue mannequins looking like delicate paper cutouts against the green of the field. Steven rolled his shoulders, and breathed in, the air so chilled, it made his nose tickle. 

"You know anything about them, then?" Carra held his arms up and over his head, fingers laced together as he pushed himself on his toes, before bending over and down to touch them on an exhale of breath. Steven scoffed, before lunging into a stretch, hands on hips, left leg extended behind him. "No more than you, mate. I know they're not English and Alonso is the one Benitez really wanted. Word is, the Mancs were after him too, Ferguson rated him highly.”

“You don’t say- we got one over Man U cunts?”

“Seems so.”

“The Spanish Armada, like. I don’t know a bleeding word of Spanish, like... like.” Carra huffed out a breath. “So, what do we think of the gaffer, then?”

Steven exhaled noisily, as he switched leg positions, taking the time to search for words to describe their new manager. He soon faltered, just coming up with just the one. 

“He’s...Spanish.”

“Yeah,” Carra, said, voice rich with understanding. “Here they come. Is that him, then?”

Steven raised a hand to his forehead, as if it were a visor, and he blocking out the non existent sun’s rays. Benitez had a pair of lads with him, walking on the field, already clad in Liverpool’s training gear, with the embroidered liver bird silhouette high on the chest, and black studs on their feet. One inky haired, and smiling, running his hands through his fringe that kept falling across his forehead, jabbering away in Spanish to his fellow Spaniard, this one his features as cool as the weather around them. Ah, this is the bloke they’d read about, saw the grainy pictures on the internet. His hair brown, fringe not as long as the other lad, his eyes relaxed, his lope measured and steady, as if bored. 

“Steven, Jamie,” Benítez waved them over, his manner brisk, impatience flaring off him like sunspots. “Our new signings, Xabi Alonso, and Luis García,” in a quick burst of Spanish, Benitez gesticulated, before translating in English, introducing them to each other, handshakes all around. Luis - the one with the hair, and raking his fingers through it and off his face- seemed a warm one, who spoke little or no English, if his nods and streams of Spanish were something to go by. Charming. 

“All right?” Carra greeted, because that’s what you said to people for whom English wasn’t a first language. _Knob_ , Steven thought affectionately, because that was Carra, and he-

“Nice to meet you,” and Steven raised his eyebrows at Xabi’s serviceable but heavily accented English, the you sounding like a _choo_. He could half feel Carra nodding his approval, _Put the Spanish dictionary away lads, we’ll be all right_. “I hope we will play together soon.”

“We will start now,” Benítez looked at his watch. “The others should be here in ten minutes-” he looked in the direction of the buildings. “Since you’re the Captain, you can speak with these two for a few minutes while everyone gets here. The others should be here in ten.” 

Rafa Benítez, ladies and gentlemen, as warm and welcoming as your school tea lady. As a unit, they all looked in Benítez’s direction as he walked away, gesticulating and calling to various linesmen and trainers to get the finishing touches ready before everyone began training, even though the field looked fine to Steven. Then they all turned and stared at each other for a minute, new to each other, and mute with first time jitters. Carra caught his eye, and Steven grinned. 

Steven broke away, first, blazing towards the line of balls, with Carra hot on his heels. He wouldn’t have done it now, testing the new guys before they warmed up with training, but back then, being twenty five and at the height of his powers- the past was a different country. Steven fired the shot, bulleting the ball towards Xabi, who tapped at it, killed its momentum, flicked it with his boot, and shot it towards Luís. Luís, all sneak, took off at a lope, his hair dancing around his face as he dribbled past Carra, seeing off Carra’s challenges with deft feet. Steven slid in for a challenge, only for Luis to kick the ball back to Xabi a second before he went over with Steven, legs and arms waving on the pitch. Steven scrambled to his feet, as quick as thought, aiming to go at Xabi. Who killed the momentum of Luís’ ball again, and from sixty yards out, had the audacity to _fire it at the net_ , the ball to ricochet off the cross beam. 

Steven and Carra exchanged a look, and a nod. This new guy, okay, not bored, just low key and switched on. As the day’s practice piled on, moving from drills to practices with the ball, and then teams, Xabi showed just _how_ switched on he was. He had touch, and vision. Where he looked, the ball honed in where it needed to go. He called out directions in Spanish and clumsy english, his direction of the midfield cool, authoritative and sure. Kept the play simple, read the game, knew when to make things happen. The best bit, he wasn’t above guile either, and could steal the ball off anyone as easy as anything. Slippery, creative, surgical and enough bruising to be mean. Stevie knew, within twenty minutes, what they had here. Catching Carra’s impressed nod, and surreptitious thumbs up, only made it better. Xabi Alonso Olano might have been one of the few who lived _up_ to his press, all first class. For the first time since Steven rebuffed Chelsea’s advances (and Jose Mourinho), he allowed himself to hope to believe- glories would come his way. 

They did come Steven's way. Thick and fast, European nights, big ears, swirling confetti and bus rides. For too brief a time.

_Merseyside, 2007_

The Spanish Armada, as Carra liked to call their imports, continued to sail into Liverpool. Fernando Torres was a cracker, with his blond hair constantly wind swept, due to how fast he moved, he impressed in training, and lived for matches to show off his skill. That game against Everton, signalling another classy Spaniard's arrival in the ranks. 

Steven found himself watching a match while sharing a pint with Carra, in one of those pubs that managed to escape gentrification, because Liverpool was in a cleaning mood, being named European City of Culture in 2008. The council in response to this honour might have been gone mad. Like a couple who heard their mother in law was due to come around and expected a clean house and realised they hadn’t thrown anything out of the guest room since the Major years; they were on a cleaning spree, and the madness caught on, with bars turning themselves inside out into gastropubs. Highlights of the game played in the background, images scrolling across the TV, but given that this was Liverpool, short of a few nods and free pints sent to their tables, they were left alone. 

“I think,” Steven said, his heart a strong thump against his ribcage at the thought of it. “We can win it this season.”

“Even with Alonso’s lack of form?” Carra asked, trying for careful tones, but it came out as brusque as anything. Steven huffed out a breath, as he rested his elbows on the table. “He’ll come back,” Steven said, “form dips, but class is forever- and Xabi’s sound.”

“Benítez is making noises about offloading him -”

“I know,” Steven said, wanting to wave it off, but felt his stomach squirm and fizz in agitation- enough for him to push his pint to one side. “Benítez just - can’t, that’s all.”

“He’s... _Spanish_ ,” Carra answered, the word still having the weight and frustration they gave to it all those years ago when they first met Benítez.

***

By late 2008, Steven grew to _loathe_ the concept of the transfer window. Virtual, his arse. He’d slam the lot down if he could, nail it shut, weld it immobile, seal the edges with molten metal, add a few stout locks to boot, to prevent Xabi from leaving.

“You _can’t_ ,” Steven’s voice was on the verge of a shout. “We’re a team, Xabs, we can win it all, we can-” his voice trailing off when he saw Xabi’s face and knew that he’d lost. 

Practice was over, and everyone else had cleared the field, just leaving Xabi and himself, with the darkness encroaching in, although it was barely 4:00 pm, because it was this side of Christmas. 

“There’s nothing to say, is there?”

“Stevie, it’s done. Benítez wanted to sell me on-”

“And he changed his mind!”

Xabi shook his head, his mouth curved into that not smile, his manner calm, aloof, almost removed. “You can’t just undo distrust-” Xabi chewed at his lower lip, reddened and chapped by the weather. “I know that football is a business, yes? It’s just that- I forgot about that for a while,” he raised his eyes to Steven, and in the dim light, before the overhead lights kicked in, his eyes were luminous, as if he were holding back tears. Or at least, Steven hoped so, because he wanted to burst into tears there and then himself. “I...me with you, I forgot that Liverpool is a club, a business, and that the manager has to look out for his interests. I have to look after _my_ interests, yes? And my agent says that Real Madrid wants me, that is my interest right now.”

Steven exhaled a shaky breath, his head throbbing. “Jesus, that’s...” and the career footballer in him could appreciate the opportunity. Real Madrid - the Bernabéu. The flashiest club in the world, the biggest club and they wanted him. “There’s nothing I can do to change your mind?” he asked, knowing the answer before Xabi shook his head, body language final. “No.” 

“Well,” Steven said after a minute, when he could trust his voice not to crack, and his eyes not to tear. Steadier now, he held out his hand for a handshake. 

“Xabs, It’s a great opportunity. You deserve it an’... Good luck.” 

His face probably betrayed him, looking as broken as he felt inside, because Xabi drew him into a hug. As soon as their bodies met, something in Steven's chest shattered. He lay his head against Xabi’s shoulder, his throat working, nothing coming out. Xabi did him a kindness then, not flinching from Steven's desperate hug, he didn’t let him go, just held him, saying words in a language that Steven didn’t know. They stayed like that, the darkening skies coming in, the electric charge as the lights on the field switched on, and the temperature dropped. 

It might have been better if Xabi had left that night, but no, he turned up, practicing and playing matches better than ever, as if he had something to prove. The emotional storm came close to overload, with newspapers writing their headlines _Will Alonso Go?_ , and interviewers wanting to trap him into an answer. The fans got in on it, writing their pleas on oversized hand made fan signs at matches begging him to stay: _Xabi, Don’t Go, Real can have anyone else not you_. They held up his jerseys on sticks, waving them like banners. Then the skilful way how he held off the press, “I’m just focusing on my games with Liverpool”- would have made Steven resent him if he hadn’t already accepted his leaving. 

It was hard- They still being able to read each other’s minds, in terms of received passes and set up plays. The ball always came to his feet, at Xabi’s bidding, and Steven ran, his heart beating as they completed their pass. The goals still firing in the back of the net, their form taking them to Champions League in 2009. It wasn’t 2005, or even late 2007. It wasn’t the same, except for the times it felt like the same, when Steven reached to hug him, _good job, mate_ , Alonso gripped his forearm, just as it had been about to curl around his waist, and pushed it away. 

A heart, Steven realised, could break again and again. 

_August 2009_

Alonso finally physically left - when they were about to go to Norway, all suited in their training kit, and ready to board the plane when word of his transfer came through. “You don’t have to go with us, Real Madrid is ready for you,” Benítez said, as he answered his mobile the same time Xabi answered his. Eyes cool, Xabi nodded. He stepped away, out of the queue, not looking back, his phone at his ear as he was bundled off to Madrid. 

Carra threw an arm around Steven’s shoulder, giving him a tight, one armed squeeze. Steven felt hollow, his skin goose bumped and too tight as if he’d caught a chill, and Steven wondered for a split second if he’d be all right again. 

“Chin up, lad,” Carra said. “We still have Torres. We can still do this.”

“Yeah,” Steven said, watching Xabi go, knowing that his leaving was a body blow, but as the Captain, he couldn’t sit down and mourn. Xabi had moved on to his next adventure, they’d have to do the same. “We can do this.” He repeated, willing himself to believe it. 

Sami Hyppia went that summer too. Even though Steve'd been named captain, Sami being around helped to keep things on an even keel, and the other players in line. "I'm sorry," Steven had said, his mouth working and no sounds came out, him being unable to explain Benítez's decisions. Benítez wasn't a manager who admired sentiment, and Steven found himself flummoxed at Benítez's coldness. He was at pains to explaining it beyond more than just a shrug of shoulders and chalking it up Benítez's nationality. 

The last match, they played together, Steven slipped the Captain's armband on to Sami's arm, "Don't say a word, mate," he pleaded, as they stepped on the field, in view of the Kop. His throat closing up as Sami took his last turn at Anfield. Years ago, he'd been given the captaincy over Sami, and it meant everything then. But he'd gotten it on the back of Sami's supposing faltering form, and for the first two days, he couldn't look Sami in the eye. Sami took him aside at the end of the second day, and said in the simplest, nicest, way, "You deserve it, Stevie. You're my Captain, and I'll support you." 

True to his word, Sami did. 

Steven watched as Sami did the run of honour on the field, his arms outstretched as if he could hug everyone. The supporters waving their signs, flags, scarves. Their declarations of love and goodbye, as they sang for him, their voices ringing in the clear summer air. God, there was nothing like Liverpool, Steven thought, his heart swelling at all the emotions ping ponging around the stadium. She deserved all the honours they could bring her.

Well then, they could do this for Liverpool. With Xabi and Sami gone. They just had to.

_Anfield July, 2010_

“Mourinho wants you,” Xabi said, slipping into Merseyside as if he hadn’t left. It was moving into summer, Wednesday, midweek, when matches weren’t played, and Steven had finished training. They walked along the docks in the oversized shadow of the Liverpool Merseyside Maritime Museum, huddling in their coats against the wind. It was evening, and most people were on their way home now, trying to get out of the night and hurrying to their supper, which left them largely undisturbed. Steven walked on, looking at Xabi from the corner of his eye. Madrid had changed Xabi quite a bit; made him sleek as a pampered house cat, with his elegant black coat, and him embracing his beard that made him look like a throwback to a classier time, less ginger and more copper in the waning light of the sun. “You should come, say yes.”

“Jose Mourinho,” Steven tried the name out in his mouth, wondering why his heart didn’t beat faster hearing that. 

“Yes, remember? When I first came to Liverpool, there was the - question?” At Steven’s nod, he went on, “Of you leaving. Mourinho wanted you for Chelsea, yes? But you stayed. And now-”

“And now?” Steven stopped, hands in his pocket, as he looked beyond Xabi towards the churning water in the distance. 

“And now you don’t have to,” Xabi said. “Benitez has left, and Liverpool- well-” the elegant shrug he gave replaced the reams of paragraphs that appeared in the red tops, lambasting Liverpool’s chances, detailing their failures in stark black on white. Steven knew, oh how he knew. Liverpool missed out on Champions League, languishing in seventh place in the Premier League, hardly setting the world on fire and _crisis_ was a kind word to refer to the fortunes of the club right now. 

“You’re a player of incredible quality, Steven,” Xabi touched his shoulder, making Steven tear his gaze away from the tumbling sea to face him. “Remember, when we played together, we were- fantastic.”

“We were,” Steven could admit that freely. “You’re the best midfielder I’ve played with.”

“There’s no shame in wanting to leave, in wanting more,” Alonso grabbed Steven’s shoulders, his face bright with conviction. " Mascherano is now at Barcelona, Árbeloa and Dudek are with me at Real Madrid. The titles are there for the taking, and you can finally learn Spanish-”

“ _Xabi_ -” Steven’s voice gave everything away.

“You won’t.”

“I can’t.”

“It’s not 2004 anymore, when you were in a cloud--?”

“Under a cloud.”

“Under a cloud,” Xabi said, his voice as gentle as a caress, but with a hint of urgency that intoxicated. “With Liverpool as it is now, no one can blame you for leaving. It’s a special club, Steven, it is true... but it’s still a club. You’ve done your time. You’ve given them ten years, five at the highest level. You gave them Istanbul and Champions League. Do this for yourself.”

Steven rubbed at his eyes with his fingers. “You’re not wrong,” he said finally, when he could find his voice. “I do think about it sometimes- I think I could make a better fist of it than Owen did -at least I wouldn’t drive to Madrid airport to get English newspapers,” he sputtered out a laugh before he sobered up. “I do think about it- _el clásico_ , _la decimá_... the Bernabéu.” He looked into Xabi’s eyes as he dared to say, “You.”

Xabi opened his mouth, closed it again. Then he tilted his head at Steven before rubbing the nape of his own neck, his eyes golden brown in the dying summer light. “And after thinking of all that,” he finally said, the words were careful, soft. “You decided against it.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because,” and to speak around the lump in his throat was painful, but he did it anyway. “Everything I am is _here_.” Steven broke their gaze, the confession stripping him down to vulnerability. He made to move off, only for Xabi to stop him. His fingers sharp points of contact on his forearm, his voice low, his breath a gust of warm wind against his ear. “Torres is thinking of leaving, too, you know?”

“Until he tells me,” Steven answered, feeling heartsick. “I’ll assume that he wants to stay.” A wan smile at this, “at least I have until the August transfer window, right? We have a year to turn it around.”

With an inaudible noise that could only be defined as _frustrated_ , Xabi shook his head, as if unable to believe what he was hearing. “I’ll tell Mourinho you’re not interested, then.”

“Tell him whatever you want.”

Xabi gave a short, sharp nod. “I will. Goodbye, Steven.”

Steven took a long time before he trusted himself to answer. “Goodbye, Xabi.”

Fernando didn’t even wait for the August 2011 transfer window to open, the wanker. By January 31, 2011, he was out of there. 

“I want to know what it feels like to lift a Champions League title,” he explained, his cheeks flushed with emotion. “With Liverpool as it is now,” he raised his hands palm up, his expression apologetic. “They sold Alonso and Mascherano, but haven’t invested it in the club, and I’m- “ he breathed. “I’m running out of tomorrows.”

Steven waved the awkwardness away. “Do what you need to do, Nando,” he said at last. “I don’t have sway with the directors-”

“They won’t keep me,” Torres said, voice brisk and matter of fact. “My price is too good and they need the money. Just... don’t hate me. Please.”

Steven sat on the bench in the changing room, looking at an undefined spot on the wall behind Torres. He couldn’t fault anyone for leaving, and he patted the space beside him, for Torres to sit down. As soon Torres did so, Steven gave him a one armed hug, and pressed a kiss against his temple, tasting the alcohol of Torres’ hair gel and the salt on his skin. “Go on with ya,” he said with mock crabbiness, his heart aching a bit when Torres laughed, edgy with relief than anything close to amusement. “Seriously, good luck.” Because that’s all you could say at the end of it, right? Good luck with your future. It wasn’t a crusade - well- not theirs anyway. 

Torres got up, his hair shorter now, less the flaxen blonde locks he had at the start of his Liverpool career, his hair now shorn and darker. He’d changed, they all had. 

“Good luck, too,” and he left. 

God love him, but he was still a wanker.

_January 2011- transfer window still open_

***

Suarez came in January, a present from the footballing gods, Steven thought. He’d seen his videos, followed his stats when Daglish and the club raised the prospect of buying him. Two forwards, because Torres- he might stay, yeah? But no, Torres left in the same window with the jeers and sneers of Liverpool fans behind him. Mourinho had called on him twice, and unlike Steven, he wasn’t going to refuse the call a second time. Glories awaited, and he left.

“What’s the verdict?” Steven asked, his arms folded across his chest as he watched Suárez in training, and liked what he saw. Driven, tough, and his work rate bar none. 

“I think,” Daniel Agger said, resting his hands on his hips, “we might just have a shot at the Champions League.”

“I think,” Steven nodded, “you might be right.”

_January 2013_

When Carra told him that he was for sure, completely retiring, Steven understood. Not a shock, because Carra had ran out of tomorrows. 

“I’ll miss you, lad,” Steven said, “the supporters, the Kop will miss you, aye. At least,” Steven started, trying to be cheerful as he sipped at his beer, “you didn’t tell me this in the August transfer window, before announcing a transfer to Everton or some shite.”

“August, eh?” Carra understood Steven’s quirk in the generous and non judgemental way that friends did. “Who would have the month, eh?”

“Straight to September 1st, I say.”

Silence fell after that, as Steven fiddled with the label on the beer. Steven had come over to Carra’s house, and they were sat in the den around the girls’ study table. His wife and girls were out but had left themselves behind, with brightly coloured story books, and jelly boots. They were off to ballet classes, school activities- whatever active girls and a busy mum did. 

“I... got a sounding call from Bayern Munich the other day.”

“Knowing you, you mean about two weeks ago,” Carra chided, as he took a sip of his beer, and confirmed everything Steven knew. “It’s a good outfit, Bayern Munich. Solid players, half of the German international team is there. Also, _Pep Guardiola_. Every year they’re assured a Champions League slot.” Carra whistled with the admiration and faint envy of a player whose team had none of those things for a long time. “Tempting.”

"Pepe's leaving. He's said yes to Guardiola and Bayern Munich, and he's been here for years."

"Yeah," Carra agreed, before taking a thoughtful pull at his drink. "And you're thinking, that if he can leave, after everything... and he's been here for years. What about you? Why not you? Yeah, you're right mate, it's tempting."

Steven worried his lower lip with his teeth, glad to finally confess with someone who understood. “It was. God, it was,” he slumped, emotion swamping him, his voice cracking with the unceasing waves of it. Torn between going for glory and staying because of what Liverpool meant to him. Unable to look at Carra, he rested his head on folded arms, the table surface chilled against exposed skin. “It _was_. I thought abou' it, I did. I almost... Me tomorrows are running out, too.”

“What did you say?” Carra asked, although he already knew the answer. Steven didn’t answer directly as much say, “We’re doing well you know, under Rogers. I think we can make top four this year, and Suarez is still here- shite, I’m sorry,” Steven's voice came close to a sob. With a wet sniff, he rubbed his nose. 

“You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t believe in Liverpool's fortunes, Stevie. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

“I do think that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel this time. It might be before the train flattens me, like, but-” _I can’t leave_. 

“I know, mate,” Carra rubbed at his back, with the smooth, soothing strokes like you’d give a fussing child before she drifted off to sleep. Steven’s breathing slowed down, steadied, as Carra repeated, “I know, I know.”

***

_May 2014_

“I’m going back to Brøndby,” Daniel Agger said after the game they played against Newcastle. He’d stayed behind to speak with Steven at Anfield, as everyone else drifted off field to hit the showers. A May evening, the summer days longer, and this time, the sky had patches of blue. They’d won the game, and everyone else had peeled off to go home, after the usual player and coach huddle, but Agger had asked Steven for a word. They left the showers, cleaned up, and dawdled in the car park for personnel. 

“My body isn’t what it used to be, among with other things,” Daniel said by way of explanation. 

Other things, like the starting line up of XI not coming to him, and his injuries that kept him out game play at stretches. Then just the other arbitrary factors that couldn’t be helped - like the manager’s choice of who to play for the formations he had in mind, and Daniel not being a part of that vision. 

“I’ll miss you,” and didn’t Steven get tired of saying it, hating the good byes. Of throwing his hands around another comrade in the red strip who due to all manner of reasons, decided to step away. “You’ve been a part of the furniture, like I have.”

“No,” Daniel said, in that gentle way he had. “No, not as long as you have. But - I’ll miss it here. Anfield, the Kop, the crowds. But, it will be good to go back home, to speak Danish again, to eat the food! And reconnect.”

“You could have left sooner, you know?” Steven found himself asking the question that bugged him when the days got longer and closer to August every year, and Agger refused to go through the transfer window. “Manchester City were after you, Barcelona... you could have been covered in glory. Why- ?”

“Because,” Daniel said simply, raising his fist with the YNWA tattoo. The letters across his fingers, less a statement of fashion, more an intent of being. “I’m covered in Liverpool. I remember that campaign we did one year, how the shirt-” and he tugged at his- a fresh strip with the crest of the Liver bird on it. “It wasn’t a shirt, but a family crest? It’s that, you know. Despite the business of football,” he broke off, exhaling a shaky breath, the subject still tender. “The managers and owners- it’s still club that belongs to the supporters, and the city in spirit. They sing us whole. They sing us home when we’re away. Sing for us even when we lose- and we’ve been lost for ages, Steven- they still sing to us, and for us. We’ve never walked alone, or played alone.” 

Steven felt his eyes swim, and he gave Daniel a warm hug and held him close. Emotions made him mute, as Steven bade Daniel a quiet goodbye. For the first time, in a long time, someone leaving the club didn’t feel like a loss with the transfer window looming, as much as a natural ending.

***

Just when Steven thought it had been safe to accept the month of August as its own entity and not fear the transfer window- progress, he thought- the World Cup happened.

 _June, 24th 2014_

He’d come off the pitch, with England’s disastrous - _was there any other kind?_ he thought bitterly- campaign ending at the World Cup. Steven got on the bus, his mood grim, because he’d failed everyone. Again. Switched on his phone, just to send a text to the girls, only for the phone to start vibrating with the messages that flashed on his screen. For a second, his heart stuttered into a painful lurch, thinking something had happened to his family. But he wouldn’t have just gotten a text, would he? Torn between throwing the phone out the window and throwing up into his kit bag, Steven clicked on the first message, the news hitting him with the force of a kick to the chest. 

“Fuck me! Luis bit someone!” A beat as the news sank in. “ _Again_?”

The media got their teeth into it, and the memes flew fast and furious. No one cared about the match against Italy in the end. Or even England just washing out, again. The media shrieked in on itself about Suarez’s actions till the air shook with rage. The shock and tumble of it all, throwing the game into disrepute, and cementing his status as a pub trivia question. 

Steven reached out, as a matter of Captain's duty, and well, mostly out of friendship. He’d liked Luis, had done from the jump. 

Luis, who had a developed killer instinct, greedy for goals, wanting to win. On the field, his presence counted, and you couldn’t ask for better from a striker. Always searching for the net, tearing up the field not caring who he had to rip through to get the ball in the back of the net. Yet, cunning and generous enough to create scoring opportunities for others when chances warranted. Technically, he was superb, and playing with him might have been like... being behind the wheel of a high powered, finely tuned sports car. Responsive, going from 0-100 in a matter of seconds, able to take the curves with ease, flying you on to glory, leaving the ruin of the past behind. 

Luis, who came to him on the night he got the news that he had been awarded player of the year, and went around thanking his teammates individually. _Thank you, it’s an honour you’ve given me_. 

He knew Luis wanted to leave. The best ones did. Liverpool had become more like a holding point for a career move; a finishing school before you got courted by the clubs you coveted to play with. The club a big enough shop window for your talents, the supporters generous enough to love you, to chant songs in your name, if you played your heart out for them. They _poured_ their affection over you, all warts and all, and sang to you. But for some players, it wasn’t enough, because they wanted glory. Luis wanted glory, charged at it. Tore at Liverpool via the press to release him from his contract so that he could get at it. “But not Arsenal,” Steven had said once, after their practice at Melwood, nose flaring at the stink of agents sniffing around the scent of Luis’ discontent. “You’re too good for that. If you must leave Liverpool- at least go to the club you covet. To the League you really want.”

“I’m happy at Liverpool.” _Liar_.

“I’m glad to hear that!” Steven clapped him on the shoulder. “We’re in the Champions League next year. We can win, with you here.”

“I’ll be here.”

The bite happened. Third time lucky for Luis Suárez, because that one action made his stance at Liverpool untenable, although Steven hoped that it scared other clubs off him too. 

Only for Luis to use that to engineer a move. In August. 

When the news came via text, that Suárez had gotten his wish to go to Barcelona- _mes que un club_ \- Steven sat down in his car in a parking lot, and stared unseeing, until his eyes burned.

***

“I think,” Steven found himself saying to Dr Peters, kindly psychiatrist to Liverpool fc. “I think August has it in for me.”

“August? As in the month?”

“The transfer window,” Steven explained, “every time it opens, our best players leave, and they don’t want to come back. They go on-” he chewed on his lower lip. “They go on to bigger teams, better things.”

“How do you feel?”

Steven ran his hands through his hair, half exasperated at Dr Peters' reasonable, probing tones. “I can’t feel sorry for myself, can I? I’m the Liverpool Captain. I won’t.”

“Do you wish you’d said yes and left? Had your chance to go through the transfer window?”

“I don’t know.” Steven said, before placing his hands over his face, the flare of shame flushing his cheeks as he gave his answer. “Sometimes.” 

_Yes_.

***

_August 2014 transfer window minus 15 days_

When Brendan Rogers finally got his man- left back Alberto Moreno - he was happy. Almost did a little jig, he did, Steven knew, but he contained himself. Good man. “I’ve spoken to him on the phone a few times.” 

In the chats they’d have, manager to team captain, slotted in the times whenever they could, Brendan would sound him out about tactics, and the players that he thought they needed. Brendan knew best, and made the decisions in the end, but it was nice to be asked, to be shown how these decisions worked and why. Usually, they’d grab a few minutes on the pitch before the other players piled out to train, but this time, they had it in his office. Relatively orderly, with various players pictures and stats on the magnetised white board behind him. “Moreno’s a good, strong left back, is a quick learner, and-” this mattered to Brendan just as much as aptitude did. “He seems a nice lad.”

“He cried on leaving his club,” Steven remembered being moved by the videos of Moreno’s face being red with tears, Sevilla losing to Real Madrid, the players milling around the pitch. Moreno wandered around on the sidelines looking inconsolable; his face red and eyes swollen. Steven even liked Sergio Ramos a little bit more for going up to Moreno, throwing an arm around Moreno’s shoulders, offering warm words and a cuddle. “He seemed upset.”

“It’s a good opportunity for him. There are some clubs that you start with, Steven, but you don’t stay with. Not if you want a career in the sport.”

“I know.”

“For a while, he wavered, didn’t want to say yes,” Brendan admitted. “His boyhood loyalties were strong. He had a rapport with the supporters and his teammates and comfort. But he said yes in the end.”

“All right?”

“He spoke to Alonso, Riena and Árbeloa,” Brendan laughed. “The first wave of the Spanish Armada -” the term stuck around on the Kop, even after Carra left. “When Seville started to soften on their stance, he started to ask the members of La Roja and they gave him the encouragement to go on a new adventure. I like him,” Brendan nodded, “I can’t wait to meet him.”

_August 2014- minus 10 days for the transfer window to close_

“We should stop meeting like this, what will the neighbours say?”

“That I still have a flat in Liverpool,” Xabi smiled, his eyes scanning the beach. They were at Crosby, to look at _Another Place_ , an installation by Antony Gormley, with cast iron figures spread over the stretch of beach between Waterloo and Blundellsands. Xabi had asked to go there at first greeting, since the installation came at his torrid time in Liverpool and he didn’t have the mind space to appreciate it then. Steven agreed to his request, although he found it odd. They parked in little more than an asphalt square that constituted the car park, and walked on the rocky path towards the beach. 

The tide was out, the sea a blue grey strip on the horizon, nothing but sand in varying shades between grey and ochre, and the statues spread apart, at various heights, from full torso at six foot, to chest height, as if showing stages of drowning in quicksand, or the surf when the tides came up. It was quiet at this time of day, the statues looking towards the sea like silent soldiers. Yeah, Steven thought, observing the landscape before them, Xabi would. 

“I heard you got Alberto Moreno,” Xabi said at last. “Good signing, loads of potential- the next Jordi Alba if he takes the opportunity and all goes well.”

“He’d rather be the first Alberto Moreno, I think.” Steven quipped. He’d have taken off his shoes and walked on sand but... his insurance didn’t cover that. 

“Well, yes,” Xabi agreed readily, “but football, you write from a point of reference, _no_? For all its talking about the new, they always refer to what is known.”

“Yeah,” Steven nodded, as they finally stepped on the beach, the sand relatively firm underfoot as they walked on. “They’re always looking for the next best thing, but who's actually the same old thing. Strange, that. So, any news about the transfer window? I heard you got Kroos for Real Madrid.”

“You, talking about the transfer window?” Xabi sputtered a laugh, as he slid him an askance look. “You _have_ changed.”

“Players come and go, right? No one stays at their boyhood club anymore. I remember seeing Alberto Moreno, that lad who got word he was leaving his... just devastated. Just- when you left Real Sociedad, did you feel like that?”

“No,” Xabi said, without hesitation. “My father already played for various teams, managed others. And, I knew Toshack and Aldridge, so I was always looking outside. Liverpool reds,” his lips curved at the memory, both of them sharing a moment of respectful silence with the uttered names, marked by the faint squawk of a seagull and the sound of waves. Xabi became thoughtful again. “As a Basque, you’re always on the outside looking to get in, because our own part of the world is small. If you want to get ahead in anything you have to leave.”

“Kinda like the Irish.”

“Yes,” Xabi said, “kind of.”

“Moreno could have stayed, but he didn’t. He’s not Basque, I don’t think, he’s--”

“Wanting a new adventure, I don’t think you need to be Basque for that, Stevie, just ambitious.”

Steven pushed on, as they drew near to the first statue, all covered with barnacles, and craggy from the actions of the sea and sand. 

“Did you think-? Never mind,” he cut himself off, not wanting to know if he wanted to hear the answer, and he jammed his hands in his pockets and looked out at the distant tide instead. 

“Did I think?” Xabi prompted. 

“Did you think less of me when I passed on Mourinho and Real Madrid? Like, I was some sort of muppet for not leaving Liverpool? Or for me not leaving the first time? Even though--”

“You’ve always been a one club man, Stevie, and I respect that.”

Well, that’s not the answer he wanted to hear, but it told him enough. “Give over.” 

“It’s true,” Xabi protested, “you’re a--” he snapped his fingers as he tried to call up the word. “A symbol for your city, and your club. Sometimes,” he took his phone out of his pocket, and raised it to eye level, taking pictures of God he knew what. “There are other ways to glory. Most of us just want trophies.”

“And I _don’t_ ?” Steven gently tapped at the vaguely human shaped statue with the tip of his trainer. “Well, fuck me.”

“My English can be clumsy,” Xabi admitted, as he put his phone back in the pocket of his slacks. “Let me try again. I remember when I first came to Liverpool, yes? You and Carra made sure that it wasn’t a Spanish dressing room, or an English, no? You made sure it was a total dressing room all for Liverpool. No warring camps. That leadership came from you. Or when you made sure you told us about Hillsborough, the first time we came there. Remember the game with Arsenal that the fans protested - for six minutes?”

Aye, Steven remembered that game. The BBC - _knob heads_ that they were- went and hired that bell end- to cover the cup game against Arsenal and it still made him rage at the memory. The supporters caught wind of that, and showed up that day. Their response, a chant, ‘Justice for 96’ for six minutes over the broadcast. It had been something, the air trembling with rage, and a sadness that weighed on the heart. A cacophony of voices as they joined, sliding into one, rising towards the heavens, and more layers of sound. The stands flooded with white and red plackets and signs, as people sang for six minutes. The players couldn’t shout orders at each other through the noise, so they played within it. 

Even now, Steven could bring the memory back; the sonic waves of sound pulling at him, and pushing through him. The outrage over the tragedy of the people who had died, coming out to watch a team they loved, crumbling under brickwork and stone, and crushed against fences, denied help because they were who they were. Had had their names slandered, in the worst way all through the media, especially _that_ vile newspaper. The powers that be rewarded McKenze with a presence on TV all those years later, the inquiry still being stonewalled by the government twenty odd years in. The supporters sang on, waving their placards, the voices loud enough to make the announcers calling the game fall into silence, letting the action go on without comment. When the six minutes finished, another shout from the crowd again, whistling and clapping, changing the mood of the stadium. Sadness dispersing, the bubble of grief and outrage retreating, the cheers coming forth. They could enjoy the match now, because their point had been made. They would never forget Justice for the ‘96, their memory as long as the injustice wasn’t set right, or attended to. 

“If it weren’t for you,” Xabi’s voice brought him back to the present, at the beach. “We wouldn’t know, you know. Wouldn’t appreciate why we play for Anfield. We’d just be Spaniards-” and he rolled his eyes at the word, and Steven understood that eye roll, because Xabi considered himself Basque before Spanish, and it made sense, because Steven himself was a Scouser first, English citizen second. “In England just playing for a team and salary. We’d be... Chelsea.”

Steven snorted with amusement at that. Good to know where Xabi’s loyalties lay, and he sent him a warm look, supremely grateful. 

“You make it more, you know?” Xabi grabbed at his forearm then, with an encouraging squeeze, and he was close enough for Steven to smell the mints on his breath, to see the lines at his eyes. “You make the shirt mean something. It’s more than trophies, it’s an honour, it’s a club remembering tragedy, and fighting for this. It’s the supporters who love their players, who love their football, because they love their Captain Fantastic. You stayed, Stevie. You shouldn’t be ashamed that you stayed. I remember when I asked you to come to Real Madrid, and you said -”

“Everything I am is here.” Steven repeated, his voice stronger this time around. 

“Yes,” Xabi nodded, his eyes half mast, shadowed by his lashes, in a way that suggested distance and aloofness, but it meant that he was deep in thought. “You weren’t wrong.” 

“I can’t come back,” Xabi went on, after a short silence. “The ship has how you called it? Sailed?”

“Yeah, sailed.” More like, hit an iceberg, caught fire, and burning splinters tossed and turning on the waves, but Steven would take sailed. 

“It’s a great memory, Liverpool. I can’t come back, but I can recommend my fellow footballers to come here. Alberto Moreno being one of them. It’s because of the fans, the history, and _you_ , Steven. How you honour it, every time you put on a shirt, and step out there.” 

“You’re a bit of all right, Xabs.”

Xabi waggled his eyebrows, and grinned. “So are you. I think I’ve seen enough of this installation. Let’s go and get something to eat, yes?”

Yeah, Steven nodded his agreement, as they started to walk towards the area where sand met walkway. They could do that.

 _September 1st 2014_

Thank goodness, the transfer window slammed shut for another year. 

Luis Suárez came back to Liverpool to pick up his things, and came bearing gifts. Rather like a romantic breakup gone wrong, really. Your ex moving on to someone else, and he came back, to pick up his shoes and bring you a houseplant, after the wretched break up you had. But you couldn’t be bitter, just wish him well, and try and move on with another one who turned your head. Enter Mario Balotelli, in this window, with a brooding swagger, topped with a sweet smile. Liverpool loved bad boys, their unpredictability made her swoon. 

Steven got a signed Barcelona jersey with a sweet message. Luis Suárez - well he had an outsize reputation, but he wasn’t all bad, could be sweet- he’d chalk up the third bite to just... transfer madness. Steven touched the Barcelona jersey, remembering that Mascherano formerly of Liverpool, now played there. By the time he took a picture with Luis, and posted it on his Instagram, Steven just about found the humour in it. 

The signings were all done, all bedded in. Turning up for training, and seeing how they slot into the puzzle pieces of the various campaigns they had going with. Speaking of bedding in, finally Steven caught up with Xabi’s match for Bayern Munich. Not surprised that Xabi slotted in as if he’d been training with the side for months, but then Xabi Alonso had always been of the first water. 

Now _that_ had been a shocking transfer. The one as unexpected as a shower of frogs on a summer’s day. Not to him, because Xabi shared Pep’s reaching out and his supposed prevaricating. “I’m still two minds about it,” Xabi hedged. Steven smiled, knowing that Xabi had already said yes, and kept his own dealings with Bayern Munich quiet. Xabi would have understood, but Steven had already made his peace with his decision and that was the end of it. Oh, and Pepe Reina would be there too, did he know that Guardiola wanted him too? Well, there'd be ex Liverpool players at one of the better clubs in the world. He wouldn't be one of them, because Liverpool lived in him as much as he lived in it. Also, not wanting to get drunk and act as if it were January, 2013 again, Steven ordered sparkling water and lime. 

At the end of the meal, Steven dropped him at his hotel. 

“I’m glad Liverpool is in the Champions League again,” Xabi said. “It’s where you should be. We’ve missed you.”

“I’m sure we’ll see you on the field. We’ll be well up for it, Liverpool. May me team win.”

“Not the better team, Stevie?”

“I’m not taking any chances, you daft plonker. Take care, yeah? But then you always do.”

A hug then, before they separated. 

Got home, and the first line of business, ordered a kit for Lou to wear, because Xabi was that friend you lived vicariously though. The elegant Basque footballer, who delighted in breaking hearts.

***

Feeling magnanimous Steven stated, “I could have August. It can be a month on the calendar again, me thinks.”

“It’s a good thing none of your daughters were born in August,” Carra said, “or they’d have had a complex or something.”

“Hah, funny,” Steven clipped his mike onto his shirt. They were at Sky studios, Steven doing an interview because Liverpool were in the hunt for Champions League glories, as well as gunning for points with the FA cup. On top of that, they got all these interesting signings, Mario Balotelli being the marquee signing - a bargain at sixteen million pounds. 

“Well, you look happier. Good times are happening at Liverpool now, eh? I wish I could be on the pitch with you.”

“Nah,” Steven said, propping his hands on the table. “You enjoy winding up Gary Neville a bit too much, you do.”

“We all have our uses.” Carra quipped, as he got the signal that the interview was about to begin. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Steven said, and for the first time in a long while, he meant it. 

“So, care to tell me about Mario Balotelli.?”

Steven leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “He’s ours now, and that's it. I can’t wait to see what he does on the pitch. It’s all here for him, if he wants it.”

"Looking forward to this season then? What's the first thing that comes to mind?" 

Steven couldn't help it, he grinned with glee. "We go again." 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> According to football rumours, Jose Mourinho wanted Gerrard at Chelsea in 2004. Then tried for him again in 2010 while he was at Real Madrid with Alonso reaching out. Gerrard rebuffed that offer too. There's a rumour that he got sounded out for Bayern Munich in 2013, but you know, take all of these rumours with pinches of salt. This story is heavy on football musings, and Steven Gerrard centric.


End file.
